


Christmas 2015

by JantoJones



Series: UNCLE Holidays [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mix of drabbles and shorts written for Christmas 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Not-So-Relaxing Weekend at the Cabin

The snow was getting heavier, so Napoleon decided to cut short his security patrol. There were five other agents patrolling, but they wouldn't have the luxury of going back inside the cabin. Apart from Illya that was. Kuryakin and Solo, along with Slate and Dancer, were guests of the Waverlys for their pre-Christmas getaway. It was only for a weekend, but it was something Veronica Waverly insisted on. Her husband agreed, but always made sure to have enough security. Mrs Waverly had thought eight bodyguards was maybe being a little too cautious, but she relented when Mr Waverly told her his top four agents were to be their guests, not just their security.

Napoleon stood his snowshoes in the snow and headed into the cabin. He shook himself off on the porch before going into the welcoming warmth within. Sitting around the dining table, with steaming mugs of cocoa, the Waverlys, Mark, and April were playing Monopoly.

"There is cocoa on the stove if you want some," Mrs Waverly told him.

"Thank you," Solo replied, with genuine gratitude. "The snow is really beginning to set in out there. I doubt THRUSH will try anything in that."

"Would you like to join the game Napoleon?" asked April. "We've only been around the board a couple of times."

Solo removed his coat and boots, and then sat at the table, accepting his playing money from Mr Waverly. The Old Man always insisted on being the banker.

"I'm surprised Illya has come back in yet," Mark commented, sighing as he landed on 'Go to Jail'.

"For some reason he likes the snow," Solo replied. "I suppose it reminds him of home."

Forty-five minutes later, Illya still hadn't returned. Even though nobody in the room actually voiced it, they were all beginning to get a little worried. Napoleon activated his communicator and tried to make contact with his absent partner. After several fruitless attempts, he switched channels to speak to the other four patrolling agents.

"Has anyone seen Kuryakin?"

He received a negative from each man, causing a knot to form in his stomach.

"Okay, I want you search for him, without compromising security. I'll be out to join you shortly."

"You don't suppose THRUSH are out there do you?" Mrs Waverly asked, taking hold of her husband's hand.

"There's no need to fret my dear," Waverly soothed. "I sure it's probably just a faulty communicator.

Mark and April stood up, intending to join Napoleon in the search, but he told them to stand down.

"You need to stay here," he told them. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, but you'd better keep guard inside the cabin."

It took a few minutes to get back into his boots and coat, but Napoleon was soon out in the blizzard again. He fitted the snowshoes onto his feet and began his search. It wasn't easy, as visibility was limited and the snow kept changing direction. Solo had to fight the urge to call Illya's name. If there were any bad guys, it wouldn't really do to advertise his position. He did keep trying with his communicator however. The beeping from his partner's device was a risk he had to take. With any luck, the sound would help him to locate the missing man.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, he picked up a faint beeping. Listening carefully, he managed to follow the sound and soon happened on the very unconscious form of Illya Kuryakin. The visible breath coming from him was enough to calm Napoleon a little. Crouching down he patted Illya's face an attempt to rouse him. The Russian moaned as he came to, indicating to Solo that he was hurt somehow.

"What happened?" Illya asked.

"I was going to ask you that? What hurts?"

"My head," Kuryakin replied, "I remember now. I lost my footing in a hidden dip, and I must have hit my head on something hard under the snow."

Very carefully, Illya sat up, but it wasn't until he tried to stand that he felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

******************************************************************

In the cabin, Mark and April were pacing, under the guise of patrolling. Nobody spoke until Mark's communicator went off.

"Slate."

"I've got Illya," came the strained voice of Napoleon. "He slipped and fell. His ankle is hurt and he banged his head. We'll be back there in ten minutes."

Mrs Waverly immediately sprang into action.

"Alex, get the first aid kit. April dear, there are some hot water bottles in the closet in our bedroom. Would you fetch them and fill them up? Mark, wait here for Napoleon, then help him to bring poor Illya to his room. I'll go and get it ready."

Within half an hour, Illya was tucked up in bed, with many hot water bottles. Mrs Waverly had been a nurse during the war, so her medical knowledge told her enough to know that his bumped head wasn't too bad. His ankle, which everyone had thought to be broken, seemed to only be a sprain. It was now wrapped up, and Illya was under strict instructions to get himself checked out properly upon their return to the city. After ensuring he had a warm mug of cocoa, she led her husband form the room, and left the agents alone.

"That young man often amazes me," Waverly said, as he and Veronica cuddled up to each other on the couch.

"How so?"

"He has received more injuries than any man I've ever known," he explained. "There can't be a bone he hasn't broken. Yet, he goes on. I bet even now, he's arguing to get out of bed."

"That sounds a lot like a man I know," Veronica replied. "You used to get injured a lot, as I recall. Even now, you don't let illness ever get in the way of your importance to U.N.C.L.E. Those young people up there follow your example, and that's no bad thing."

Alexander Waverly smiled. He gently kissed his wife's forehead and they both dozed off in front of the crackling fire.


	2. Ornament

Illya had been with U.N.C.L.E. for five years, but he'd never joined in with the commissary Christmas tree decorating. A bare tree was put up on the first of December and was gradually filled as everyone placed something onto it. It wasn't that the Russian hadn't wanted to take part, he'd just never had anything suitable.

This year, Illya had the perfect thing. On a trip to Europe, he'd found a Matryoshka tree ornament. With her blue eyes and blonde hair, she reminded him of his mother. When the commissary was empty, he carefully placed his ornament on the tree.


	3. The Grumpiest Christmas Elf

"Ow!"

The small child, wearing a yellow bobble hat, ducked out of the way as the grouchy elf he'd just kicked tried to grab him. The child sought refuge on the knee of Santa Claus. Hidden behind the bushy white beard, it was all Napoleon Solo could do not to laugh out loud at his tormented partner. Illya, bedecked in a green elf costume, complete with jingling green hat and plastic pointed ears, cursed under his breath. That was the twentieth time he'd been assaulted by one of the children waiting to see Santa. He couldn't understand why the adults accompanying the children didn't do something to curb the behaviour of their ill-disciplined offspring.

"He's grumpy," the hat wearing child whispered to Napoleon.

"Yes, well, Snarky the Elf doesn't like being kicked," Solo replied. "That very was naughty of you, wasn't it? Maybe you should apologise."

The child turned to face Illya and offered him a half-hearted "s'ry", before turning back to Santa Napoleon and spouting off an epic list of all the things he wanted for Christmas. Illya wasn't sure how much more he could take of all the naked greed he was witnessing from these children. In the west, it seemed that people were enslaved to consumerism at a very early age. Like every child before him, the hat wearer promised to be good and took the small gift Illya held out for him. It took every ounce of will power not to throw it.

Being a department store Christmas elf wasn't the worst assignment Illya had ever had, but he would take a THRUSH torture session over this any day. He had no idea why Napoleon had dragged him in on this in the first place. After all, only one of them was needed to intercept the courier. The Russian strongly suspected that the American was simply having a laugh at his expense.

U.N.C.L.E. had learned that THRUSH were going to pass stolen security codes to a courier who was posing as Santa Claus. The courier had been waylaid by Solo and Kuryakin, and his place taken by them. The beauty of Napoleon's disguise was that it was almost impossible to tell who was behind the beard. As a result, the handover went without the THRUSH operative noticing to whom he was really giving the codes. She was playing the part of a fussing mother, who shook Santa's hand as she lifted 'her' child from his lap. The microfilm containing the codes was passed in the handshake.

That had been three hours ago, and despite Illya's protestations, Napoleon insisted they complete the 'Meet Santa Claus' session. After all, he'd said, we don't want to disappoint the kiddies.

As another child landed a hefty kick against his shin, Illya swore dark revenge on his partner.


	4. Christmas is What You Make It

The sun was setting on over the island bar, but there were no patrons to see it. Only one man remained in the ramshackle shack, and he helped himself to a drink before going and sitting on the warm sand. He smiled at the incongruous coloured lights which were wrapped around the trunk of a palm tree and glanced at his watch. It would be Christmas day in a few hours, and thanks to some hard work by both him and his partner, the people of this island were still alive to celebrate the day. They wouldn't be able to return to the island until it had been deemed safe, but at least they would have a home to which they could return.

A figure sat down next to him in the sand, causing Napoleon to automatically reach for his weapon.

"Sorry," Illya stated. "I called to you as I came onto the beach."

"I was miles away," Solo muttered, taking his hand from the gun.

Illya frowned. It was never a good thing when Napoleon was down after a mission. Admittedly, they often witnessed the worst of humankind, but they'd had a good result today. The bad buys had been stopped and no-one had been hurt; and that included to two agents.

"A team of experts will be arriving the day after tomorrow to supervise the removal of the chemicals and the dismantling of the manufacturing plant."

"They get to have Christmas first then?" Napoleon muttered.

So that was the problem.

"Were you going to your Aunt Amy's?" Illya asked.

"Yes," Solo confirmed. "You were invited too by the way, but this assignment happened before I could ask you."

"Does that mean she's spending Christmas alone?"

Napoleon appreciated the concern in his friend's voice. Aunt Amy had a bit of a soft spot for the Russian, and it was nice knowing that it was mutual.

"Not at all," he assured the other man. "We were two of ten guests, so she'll still have plenty of company."

"We could still celebrate Christmas," Illya told him. "We have to stay here until the clean-up team are finished, so why don't we just put something together at the hotel down the road?"

The following afternoon found Napoleon and Illya in the kitchen of the hotel. They had just put the finishing touches to a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It was a constant bewilderment to Illya that people took winter holidays to warm places to avoid the weather, but still insisted on having a traditional Christmas. It was because of this that the hotel had everything the two men needed for their own dinner.

They took their food out to the restaurant and sat at a table by the window. Napoleon poured two glasses of wine and held his own up for a toast.

"This may not be the Christmas I had envisioned, but I have good food, good company and modicum of safety. Happy Christmas my friend."

"С Рождеством!" _(Merry Christmas)_


	5. Festive Feast

Napoleon slowly lowered the fork full of steak back to the plate and glared at Illya.

"It's what?"

"I don't see what your problem is with it," the Russian replied, continuing to shovel the meat into his mouth. "You've eaten such things, and worse, while on assignment."

"We're not on assignment," Solo countered. "When you invited me out for traditional Russian food, I didn't expect this."

"It's eaten all the time in Siberia," Illya told him. "It's used the same way you use cows."

"I know that," Napoleon practically wailed. "But it just isn't right to eat reindeer around Christmas."


	6. Christmas Lunch Date

"Are you absolutely certain you don't want to join us for Christmas lunch tomorrow?" Napoleon asked. "There'll be more than enough. Even for you."

"Thank you, again," Illya replied. "Please give my apologies and thanks to your Aunt Amy, but I have a previous invitation."

Solo waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"So who is the lucky lady who managed to do what half the women here have been trying to do for years?"

"That is for me to know," Illya told him pointedly, as he donned his coat, scarf and gloves.

"Okay, Illya, keep your secrets. It'll no doubt be all over HQ the day after tomorrow."

"Enjoy your day, my friend," Illya said as he made to leave the office. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Tovarisch."

At 2pm the following afternoon, Illya knocked on the door of his landlady, Mrs Danby, armed with a wrapped box of chocolates. The old lady usually had her son and daughter-in-law for Christmas, but he had been sent overseas by his company and wouldn't be returning until the New Year. Knowing that Illya was a single man she'd asked him if he would like to join her for lunch. He hadn't been sure at first, but his own cultural background reminded him that it was his duty to accept Mrs Danby's invitation. She was a grandmother, a babushka, and grandmothers were revered. Besides, he liked her, and she enjoyed hearing tales of his homeland.

The door opened and he was greeted by a very frantic Mrs Danby.

"Oh, Mr Kuryakin! Is it 2pm already. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hitch. The turkey is cooked but my cooker has stopped working before I could finish off the gravy."

"Let me take a look at it," Illya said with a smile.

It turned out to be a loose wire, which Illya fixed very easily, so it wasn't long before they were sitting down to one of the best meals Illya had ever tasted. He had eaten many types of food, in many countries but there was something about a simple home cooked meal which beat everything else.

"Your son must be unhappy to be missing out on such wonderful food, Mrs Danby," he commented, after completely clearing his plate of his second helpings.

"I'm surprised a skinny thing like you could find room to put it," the old woman laughed. "You must have hollow legs."

Illya smiled warmly. "My Babushka used to tell me that. Oh," he suddenly exclaimed. "With all the excitement with the cooker, I almost forgot."

He went into the kitchen to retrieve the chocolates he'd abandoned there earlier.

"С Рождеством."

"Thank you," Mrs Danby replied. "I'm going to assume that means merry Christmas."

"That is correct."

"I have something for you too," the old woman announced. "It's just under the tree behind you. And don't start saying I shouldn't have, because I know I should. It's not a lot, but I hope you'll like it."

Illya looked through the small pile of gifts until he found one with a tag bearing his name. Carefully tearing away the paper he found a thick, hand-knitted woollen scarf. It looked to be quite warm.

"Did you make this yourself?" he asked.

"I did," she told him. "I hope you like the colour. Powder blue matches those lovely eyes of yours."

He wrapped it around his shoulders, finding himself feeling slightly emotional. Not that he showed it on the outside, but to receive such a lovingly crafted gift was something which rarely happened to him.

"I shall wear it with pride," he promised.


	7. A Wondrous Sight

It was wondrous sight, and Napoleon was enjoying the vision before him. He wouldn't ordinarily be so blatant as he admired the female form, but he really couldn't help himself. The way Monica's skirt stretched across her shapely posterior, as she placed the star at the top of the secretarial pool Christmas tree, had him utterly transfixed. Having had, in the past, the pleasure of seeing what was usually kept hidden beneath the blue fabric, it made him appreciate the view all the more. The whole aspect was enhanced by the tantalising glimpse of a lace-topped stocking.

"Can we help you, Mr Solo?"

Uncharacteristically embarrassed at having been caught by Mrs Jakes, head of the department, Napoleon mumbled an apology and hurried away. He would call Monica later and ask her if she had any plans for the evening. Hopefully, her stockings would be laying on his floor by morning.


	8. Aftermath

The two of them paused outside the room, each knowing that it was likely to be terrible in there. This was one part of their job which they truly despised. It wasn't the first time they would face such a horrific sight, nor would it be the last, but it didn't prevent them from feeling an enormous amount of trepidation. With matching deep breaths, the pair pushed open the doors and took a step inside. They shook their heads in sad dismay as they took in the carnage before them. Whatever had gone on in this room, it had seemingly been perpetrated by the truly mad.

The furniture, which had been neatly arranged, now lay strewn. Much of it looked as though it had been thrown out of the way. The floor, the walls, and even the ceiling were covered in many stains; the origins of which they could only guess at. Not that they wished to dwell upon it for too long.

The taller of the two suddenly stopped short and pointed over to the corner. A figure lay there, tightly curled up in a ball, beneath one of the few upright tables. A long, pain-filled moan emanated from the stricken man, which at least showed he was still alive.

"There are going to questions about how this was allowed to happen," the shorter one commented.

"I'll be one of those asking the questions," the other replied. "These parties get worse every year. You'd think we were dealing with a college fraternity rather than highly trained espionage agents. Come on then Rita, the sooner we get going the sooner we can get it finished."

The two cleaners, armed with their silver coloured cleaning cart and mops, got stuck into cleaning up the mess from the annual U.N.C.L.E. Christmas party.


End file.
